


Things Untold

by renecdote



Series: hc_bingo 2017 [9]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Dami needs more love, Dick is a Good Brother, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Some Fluff, hiding an injury/illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 15:28:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12820494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: It looks worse than it is, he thinks, ignoring the throb as he twists to see how far around his body it goes, the burst of pain when he pokes his side. Nothing serious. Just a bruise





	Things Untold

**Author's Note:**

> For my hurt/comfort bingo square “hiding an injury/illness”.

Damian traces the bruise blossoming across his abdomen. It’s an ugly dark purple, large and tender, curving around from his naval and up his side. _It looks worse than it is_ , he thinks, ignoring the throb as he twists to see how far around his body it goes, the burst of pain when he pokes his side. _Nothing serious. Just a bruise_. A large, painful one, but still just a bruise.

He wishes he could say it was from a hard kick by one of Batman’s more skilled rogues. Or even a lucky shot by one of the drug cartels’ trained thugs. If that were the case, maybe he’d quietly admit to Pennyworth or Grayson that he was injured. But this is embarrassing. This was a stupid mistake on a self-appointed patrol he shouldn’t have snuck out to do. An ice-slicked rooftop, stiff fingers that didn’t fire his grapple quite right, a chimney that stopped his rapid descent to the grey, snow-covered street below. Hard and jarring, sudden pain shooting up his side, his torso, making him bite his cheek to stop from crying out. He’d just lain there, blinking back tears, for a long while. Then he’d crawled back to the penthouse, snuck in the way he went out, and woken to the deep purple-black bruise later in the morning.

There are ice packs in both the freezer upstairs and the one in the med bay down in the bunker, but Pennyworth checks the supplies regularly and he'd likely notice if one was missing. And then he would tell Grayson and Damian would be benched, most likely coddled even though it’s just a bruise. Maybe they would even punish him for not admitting to the injury as soon as it happened. Definitely for sneaking out.

He can hear Grayson’s disappointed lecture now. “It’s dangerous, Damian. You can’t go out alone, especially not in this weather. What if you’d been more seriously injured? What if you’d _died?_ ”

Damian cringes just thinking about it. No. He does not need to tell anyone he was injured. It doesn't even hurt that much. As long as he takes care to move more slowly, sleeps on his back, doesn't breathe too deep. A few days, a week at most, and he'll fine.

\--

The end of the week comes and Damian’s right side and abdomen are still a deep, vivid purple, faded to grey around the edges, but still so dark it’s almost black. He makes sure to wear shirts that tuck into his pants to avoid any chance of the bruised skin being accidentally revealed. He avoids sparring or training with Grayson until he can’t avoid the man any longer. Then he makes sure they do so dressed in uniform. “To help me better adjust to the stiff kevlar and cape,” he says to Grayson. _To make sure no loose clothing flutters up and reveals what I’m hiding_ , he admits to himself.

Grayson goes easy on him. For once, Damian lets him. As it is, he’s sure he would have taken more hits than he blocked if it was a proper fight. He knows it raises suspicion when he doesn’t insist they spar another round, fight for real this time, that he’s not a child and he can handle a little hard hitting. _Gotham’s villains will not go easy on us, after all, Grayson_. But he’s stiff, moving slowly, trying not to wince with every twist, trying not to cry out with every punch or kick that lands on or around the bruise. He lets Grayson end the fight with a headlock he (probably) could have broken and slinks off to soothe his aching (throbbing, screaming) body with a hot shower.

“Something’s off about him,” he hears Grayson say to Pennyworth as he leaves. “He’s hiding something.”

Pennyworth makes a considering sound and turns away from the computer to watch Damian vanish from sight. “A young boy once told me that sometimes the best way to find things out is to ask,” the old butler says, in that dry tone Damian has learnt to associate with advice. “Perhaps you should try talking to Master Damian.”

Damian makes a mental note to avoid Grayson at all costs for the next twenty-four hours. Surely by then he’ll have forgotten he was even concerned.

\--

The one place he can’t avoid Grayson is patrol. And unlike his father, the new Batman seems to have no qualms about mixing bat business with family business.

“You know you can always talk to me, right Robin?” It's earnest and sincere, and only the slightest bit pleading.

And why is it making Damian feel strangely warm and fuzzy instead of annoyed? He scowls. Perhaps he is becoming ill. It is the only explanation.

“Less talking, more punching,” Damian growls because they're in the middle of a fight with Penguin’s goons. Now is _not_ the time for a tête-a-tête.

A more appropriate time would be _never_.

Unfortunately, the damage has already been done. He is already fighting distracted, trying to protect his side and abdomen more than he usually would, and the added distraction of Grayson making conversation is a costly one. A thug gets in close and hits him in the side and Damian’s vision goes white. He falls to his knees, a strangled cry of pain slipping through his gritted teeth.

“Robin!” Grayson yells as the thug comes at him again with a kick. Damian feels his lower ribs crack. Black spots encroach on his vision. Someone screams in pain; it might be him, it might be the thug suffering under Batman’s retribution, it might be someone else entirely. He thinks he hears someone swear.

Then he passes out.

—

He’s not sure who looks more disapproving. Pennyworth, with his pinched expression and clinical demeanour, or Grayson, with his unhappy frown and stiff posture. Damian opens his mouth and then closes it, turning to stare at the wall on his other side with an unhappy frown of his own. He doesn’t know what he’s expected to say. Apologies did nothing with his teachers, mother or grandfather in the League. He would just have to accept his punishment and move on. But punishment has been handed out yet and Damian is unsure how to act.

“How long?” Grayson asks after Pennyworth has moved away from examining Damian’s ribs to find bandages.

“How long what?” Damian returns sullenly.

“Do not play dumb, Damian,” Grayson snaps, his hold on his temper waring with his concern. “How long have you been hiding this?”

Damian crosses his arms and tries not to wince when it pulls on tender skin and sore muscles. “It’s just a bruise.” It was, anyway, before that thug cracked three of his ribs.

“Just a-“ Grayson breaks off with a frustrated sigh, running his hands through already mussed hair. Damian finds himself wondering how many times he’s already done it tonight. How much of it is irritation and how much is worry. “You ‘ _just_ ’ bruised your spleen, Damian! Most likely several days ago, whenever you did that.” He grimaces as he gestures to the ugly colouring that Damian is no longer able to hide. His voice is softer, more sad than angry when he continues, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Damian peeks up at at him through his lashes, but ultimately decides his boots are a much better view. He can’t bear to see that expression on Grayson’s face. It makes him feel unsettled. Wary. Like waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Grayson to punish him for sneaking out and hiding injuries by taking away Robin or kicking him out. His gaze darts over to Pennyworth, who seems to be taking an awful long time searching for bandages. Maybe this is like good cop, bad cop? Maybe Grayson is going to guilt him with his big brother routine and then Pennyworth is going to make sure he really, truly is sorry by setting down a harsh punishment for his actions.

Grayson shakes his head, giving up on waiting for an answer to his question. “Going out injured was stupid and reckless,” he says. “It got you more hurt and you’re lucky because it could have gotten you _killed_.”

Damian grimaces. “It wasn’t that bad,” he mutters. He’s had a lot worse. Fought with a lot worse.

“Next time-“ the barest hint of a pause, like he loathes that there will be a next time, “-just tell us, okay? We’re not gonna be mad.”

“You’re mad now.”

“That would be because you _didn’t_ tell us, Master Damian,” Pennyworth says, apparently having deemed the conversation worthy of his presence again. He makes Damian holds his arms out so he can wrap an ace bandage around his ribs to keep them still while they heal. “And in doing so, you aggravated your injuries and left both yourself and Master Dick exposed in the field.”

Damian says nothing. What is there to say? _I’m sorry_ would probably be appropriate, but it somehow doesn’t feel adequate. And he’s not sorry, not really. He’s still not convinced he did anything wrong except let on that he had been injured and allow it to affect him out on the streets. If he had just been stronger, more skilled, used more of his training...

“I’ll do better next time,” he finally offers. The groove between Grayson’s eyes seems to grow deeper, like he knows the words aren’t a commitment to sharing future injuries. But he doesn’t question it, just accepts it as a small step of progress. And when Pennyworth steps back, he stops in to wrap Damian in a gentle hug, ever mindful of his injuries.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Dames,” Grayson says. He pulls back just far enough to look Damian in the eyes, giving him no escape from his commanding gaze. “You get leniency this time; you’re not grounded, just no training or patrol until Alfred says your ribs are okay. But if you ever do that again, you won’t see Robin’s cape for months. Got it?”

Damian has no choice but to nod agreement. The lack of punishment should make him feel better, more comfortable and secure in his new home, but it sets him on edge instead. It’s not familiar. Gotham, the Waynes… it seems like every day he relearns just how different they are to the League. Maybe one day, he’ll feel just as at home here as he did there.

And perhaps it starts with telling Grayson he’s hurt the next time a thug gets lucky with a knife on patrol, or he breaks a finger hitting too hard during training.

Perhaps it starts with care instead of punishment.

Perhaps it starts with this strange, warm feeling of family he’s getting used to.

( _Perhaps_ , he muses as he relaxes into Grayson’s hug, _it has already happened_.)

**Author's Note:**

> Tumbler is [here](%E2%80%9Ctantalum-cobalt.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D).


End file.
